


adapt, evolve, become.

by peupeugunn



Series: ghost towns in the ocean [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Spoilers for Scorpia Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 18:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15801831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peupeugunn/pseuds/peupeugunn
Summary: “This is how you get out. You're slowly moving towards a desk job.” A pause, then, “you know, most people do it the other way around.” Alex chuckles softly and and shuffles towards him to lean against his shoulder, burrowing into the crook of his neck. Ben’s arm winds around him, shields him from the world, a solid weight on his back. “You're going to miss the adrenaline rushes, kid.” There's something almost sad in his voice. Alex doesn't want to understand why. Down that road lies madness.





	adapt, evolve, become.

When the meeting is over, Alex exits side by side with Mrs. Jones. They leave the room right after Blunt does. Alex had pointedly made sure that they were the last to leave because he didn't trust any of them, his superiors, wouldn't trust them with a paperclip, let alone show his back to them. Vulnerability is death. Cold gales burrow into him as they step out of the building. It hasn't started snowing yet, though Alex knows it will.

As they wait for the car, Jones glances at him with something like worry in her eyes. Blunt looks proud and slightly fearful in his grey way, like he has accomplished all that he set out to do, but regrets the outcome. The man presses his lips tightly together, but Alex has been around him enough to know that he's biting back his words. Jones looks a bit green, and she adjusts her coat more tightly around herself. Alex wants to dismiss this action, but his instincts say _no._ He never ignores his gut feelings these days. It's how he's made it this far.

_She's worried for me,_ he thinks. _Blunt is proud of my performance, but he's likely cursing himself for letting me off my leash enough to gain enough power._

Everything is about power, Alex had realised when he was sixteen (he'd learnt this is the worst possible way). Hugo Grief had been correct about that, if nothing else. In that meeting, Alex had _gained_ for the first time in years, and now he has control over his body, his movements, his life. He's won one battle in a long, cold war, and now he isn't Blunt’s toy any longer.

He catches Blunt’s eye, and let's his lips twitch upwards ever so slightly. The almost-smirk lasts for less than a moment, but satisfaction curls in his gut at the way Blunt’s eyes narrow, his lips thin, his eyebrows push downwards. This is a victory, Alex knows, the first of many to come. There will be losses too, but Alex is well on his way to winning, and he's damn well going to make Blunt _watch_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"International relations, political science- Alex I thought you wanted to get _out_ of this mess,” Ben scowls at the papers in his hand, eyes flicking upwards to meet Alex’s own. “This,” he says, waving the papers around, “is the exact opposite of getting out.” 

Alex sighs. Ben _sees_ but doesn't at the same time. He has the answer in his grasp but he doesn't comprehend it for what it is. “It isn't the opposite,” he says, and keeps the subtle thread of disappointment from his speech with an ease long practiced. 

Ben tilts his head. It's a familiar gesture of confusion, curiosity, and has the undertones of something animalistic, cold and analytical, almost predatory. He wonders idly if Ben adopted the gesture after having been around Alex too long, or if it is really the other way around.

“I can't leave this life, Ben. It's all I've ever known. I want to stop-” he takes in a sharp breath, lets it out, pinching the bridge of his nose. The wrong words don't come to him often anymore, he's gained a control over them for the sake of survival. He chooses the right words with care, and quickly. The wrong words can get him killed. The wrong words disappoint him. “Near-death experiences are _exhausting_ , and I've got something of an affinity for them,” he trails off into a whisper, unbearably tired and hoping his friend takes the hint.

He does. “This is how you get out. You're slowly moving towards a desk job.” A pause, then, “you know, most people do it the other way around.” Alex chuckles softly and shuffles towards him to lean against his shoulder, burrowing into the crook of his neck. Ben’s arm winds around him, shields him from the world, a solid weight on his back. “You're going to miss the adrenaline rushes, kid.” There's something almost sad in his voice. Alex doesn't want to understand why. Down that road lies madness.

Instead, he huffs softly, too tired to even laugh properly, and doesn't protest when Ben squirms, tickled by the rush of air against the sensitive skin of his neck. “By the time I get to where I want to be, if I want to get back in the field, they won't be able to say no.”

Ben hums. Alex can almost taste the words he doesn't let out. _By the time you get to where you want, Alex, there won't be anyone with the balls to refuse you, let alone the authority._

The thought makes Alex wonder if he's become more like Blunt naturally, if he would have been the same person without having ever dealt with MI6, or if Blunt's ruthless practicality is the only way to survive in the world of intrigue, espionage, and death.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The second time Alex meets K-Unit, he isn't quite expecting it. He’s in the middle of planning a large-scale operation, an assault on an illegal weapons manufacturer. He's the youngest person to ever be trusted with such seniority, though this is hardly the first time he’s been in such a position. He’s actually quite good at the planning. Scorpia didn't slack off in their teaching, for all that he wasn’t there long enough to complete it (he's quite glad he did leave, too. Resistance to interrogation is a horrifying, soul-shaking thing, and he knows this from experience. Scorpia never did anything by halves).

He doesn’t quite register their hulking presences, having dismissed them from his thoughts after unconsciously realising that they posed no threat to him, but it's hard to ignore prolonged, intense stares for long. He looks up from his maps, expression blank, though he is most definitely displeased at being disturbed so. Wolf meets his stare calmly, if a little confused. His shoulders are straight, as is his back, and his hands are clasped behind him. His arms are tense. He's nervous (or angry).

Snake, who's standing a little behind him, seems to be feeling the same emotions. Eagle is staring unabashedly, eyes narrowed slightly. The fourth member of their unit- Mouse, Alex recalls- seems confused. They all stand in the same position as Wolf, and they all exhibit signs of wariness. How odd. 

But his work is very pressing, and he does have a deadline so Alex raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Wolf pushes his shoulders back some more for whatever reason and says, “Cub,” in the blandest tone of voice possible. It reminds him of Blunt. Snake and Eagle hide winces at the openness, and Alex forces himself not to react. They have the right idea. Wolf is the kind of straight laced soldier who doesn't ask questions and is always as honest as possible, like something out of a shitty American action movie with little plot and a gratuitous sprinkling of explosions (Alex has never had a fondness for those movies). That will get him killed sooner or later, though it is more likely to be the former.

“I go by Rider these days,” Alex replies. His voice is as unwavering as his stare, but colder. (It's a powerful name, Rider. John had made it something sinister, a name to be feared even amongst assassins, and Ian made it something to be revered in the cold hallways of the Bank. Alex doesn't particularly care about them anymore, he's in the game to  _make history_ ). He has no patience for this. Alex kicking Wolf out of an airplane to save the man's career, Wolf saving his life in the Alps, none of that truly matters. It doesn't give the man the right to demand an explanation for his presence. Alex wonders at that, wonders how K-Unit rationalised it, how Wolf didn't questionwhy Alex was at Point Blanc. But he doesn't wonder for long because he knows.

_A prissy little shit, a spoiled brat who needed to be taught a lesson by the mean old Dad, sent off to an SAS camp to teach him a little humility. Dad pays off the SAS for the inconvenience of having him there for a mere week, and when he's done and come back with his spine a little straighter and cheeks more tear stained, he's sent back to the prestigious boarding school for other spoiled brats._

There's no other explanation, really. The man would be unwilling to accept that his country could be so cruel to a _child_ , to use him in such a way.

Wolf looks a little startled, perhaps he had deluded himself into thinking Alex would freely give away how and why he's leading an operation so large when he's so young. How foolish. Alex has stubbornly refused to talk and has felt pain unimaginable for a lot less information. The man nods decisively, though his head doesn't lower enough for it to be an acknowledgement, least of all a gesture of respect. He's displeased at the fact that Alex had the  _gall_ to refuse him the answers he wished to have, but he knows he will have to accept this.

“Do you require anything, Captain?” Alex asks in the same bland tone Wolf had used, twirling a pen in hand. It's a restless gesture, and one he usually manages to quell, but this time it serves a purpose, tells the man that Alex is here to do his job, just as Wolf is supposed to be doing, and that Alex doesn't appreciate the interruption in the slightest.

Wolf breathes out, slowly but loudly. “No, sir.” And with that, he leaves, his unit trailing behind him like ducklings would their mother. Alex smirks slightly at the image, and at the very small win he has just achieved, and then gets back to work.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Julius Grief is a fucking asshole who should be dead. After all, Alex _did_ shoot him, and in the head, too! And given the undeniable proof that the man is still alive (either that or Alex has his name on Destiny's shit list, and the latter is more likely), Alex is beyond _pissed_ _off_. It's extremely unlikely that Julius Grief survived Alex, and it's also extremely unlikely that Alex somehow has someone- _the_ _head of a vast criminal organisation_ \- with his face walking around. That this man is his doppelganger is a very slight possibility, but this man, he not only dresses like Alex has taken to dressing, he walks like him, talks like him, and has the same hair as Alex.

Alex who couldn't look in the mirror for a very long time without seeing Julius Grief's face, _his own_ face, cold and dead, with his brains splattered across the ground. Alex who took to “bravely” applying eyeliner, a very slight streak (winged eyeliner is his particular favourite, though why some people call it cat eyeliner is beyond him), and colouring his hair with very light colours. This man has the same hair colour as Alex had coloured his on November 27th, which was when this picture was taken. It was a soft, barely there pastel pink that suited his dark tan very nicely, and had gone very well with the light grey three-piece suit that he'd worn to an excruciatingly boringdinner party (of course, on November 27th), on the very opposite side of the world to where the picture was taken.

“Alex,” Mrs. Jones said very softly. Alex looked up from the photograph he'd been examining to meet her eyes, his expression carefully devoid of any emotion whatsoever. “It would be useless of me to ask you where you were on-”

“Never mind that, any of that. What I would like to know is this: why am _I_ the one in custody when you _know_ that if this _was_ me, I wouldn't give up any information whatsoever, and that this couldn't possibly be me, because neither you nor I nor anyone else on this godforsaken planet are capable of being in two places at the same moment, never mind two places on _different continents_.” He stops abruptly, seeing Mrs. Jones go very still at his words. If this is going where he thinks it is going, he will be absolutely delighted at the opportunity to hiss at her about her lack of good sense.

Raising an eyebrow prompts a reply, even if it is reluctant and resigned. “It's been seen before, people appearing on different sides of the world within the same day when that is, to the best of anyone's knowledge, impossible.” Well, this isn't what he expected. What he _had_ expected was for her to tell him that the British government was sanctioning experiments in teleportation or some bullshit, and then he would laugh and ask her where her so beloved ideals reflected in that. She looks pleased but not, at having surprised him. This must be some pretty serious stuff if she's not even willing to take a second and revel at this tiny victory over him.

“And who exactly are these people? At least one of them has to be someone I know, I wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“ _These people_ don't have allegedly dead clones like you do, Mr. Rider.” It's a poor attempt at a deflection, but he decides to take it. The curiosity simmers under his skin, slow and aching for reprieve, but he quells it. This isn't the time. Instead-

“First of all,” he interrupts, seemingly without care. “I resent the _'allegedly’_ in there. It's difficult to explain all of this,” he says, gesturing to the photograph he has in front of him, and the files in front of her, “if Julius Grief is truly dead. But I did shoot him in the head at point blank range,” at this, he lets the curve of his lips come into being in the form of a light smirk (the only way he ever smiles anymore, save for when he is with Ben), then lets it fade. It's terribly disappointing when people don't notice his puns. “The second thing I would like to address with your phrasing is your use of the word ‘clone’, which is blatantly incorrect, and you know this. He is- _was-_ Hugo Grief's clone, tailor made to _look_ like me. He isn't really me at all.” ( _Liar,_ the voice in the back of his mind hisses.) He lets his posture betray a sense of triumph over her, even when his words bring to mind finding those _photographs_ , with every detail of his body meticulously frozen onto paper and _dissected_ , the sheer sense of being violated he had felt. It's the reason the very thought of being photographed makes his skin crawl, and he resents Julius Grief even more at that, because if the asshole hadn't existed at all, Alex wouldn't have to feel like there were insects buzzing under his skin, trying their level best to burst out.

The silence stretches on. Mrs. Jones stares at him unflinchingly, looking for fuck knows what. He stares back, waiting for her to crack. She doesn't. She's far more experienced at this than he, so it is unsurprising when he speaks first. “Didn't you say that these mysterious people appear in two different places within a day when that should be impossible? Within a day has very many possibilities, but seeing as you didn't say 'at the same time,' I'm going to go ahead and assume that there _was_ a difference in the times they were spotted.”

She tilts her head, considering. the gesture isn't quite like the one Ben makes, which is a sign of curiosity, or the one Alex makes, which he does when assessing a person for weaknesses, emotional or physical, in order to exploit them. It's thoughtful, considering, but not cold. She weighs his words, examines them as she is wont to do whenever he speaks, then nods sharply.

“I'll talk to them, see what I can do about this.” _Them_ being her superiors- Blunt included. Alex sighs because he knows it will go well, in his favour, but will take a bloody long time because Blunt exists to inconvenience and irritate him. He slouches down into the uncomfortable, sharp metal chair and settles in for a long wait. He's slept in much, _much_ worse places.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the end, Julius Grief or whoever Alex’s mysterious doppelganger is matters little. Close to nothing, really. In the end, it comes down to war. It's an era of surveillance and lack of true free will, an era of change, scientific innovation, an era of death. For all that Alex is in a position of authority, and shielded from the wrath of his nations enemies, he refuses to stay back and let people sacrifice themselves so he could live in the lap of luxury.

_I seem to be incapable of dying_ , he'd told Sabina once. She'd smiled sadly, and refuted that with soft words about hubris and fate being an ironic asshole.

He'd told Ben the same thing. Ben had simple stared at him for the longest time with something like guilt and pity edged into the worry lines on his forehead. _That'll serve you well in the future, I suppose_. He'd made it sound like a sentencing. And he'd been right.

For all that Alex was well versed in the art of espionage, and for all that he was one of the best suited individuals to fight in this war- The Second Cold War, a bitter pill to taste after so long of expecting the quick annihilation of the entire world by way of nuclear weaponry- he knew nothing of the gritty taste of fear and guilt and blood and regret. He'd saved the world on multiple occasions, all involuntary. It figures that the only time he'd willingly stepped into the fight, onto the battlefield, he found himself bathing in the blood of thousands without having truly saved _anyone_.

He knew nothing of war. But he was unwilling to step away from it, to retreat to the sidelines. _I won't sacrifice the lives of others just because I don't want to get my hands and dirtier._

Before he'd left for Germany to receive his orders, Mrs. Jones had pulled him aside, fingers digging into his arm like a vice, sure to leave bruises. _Just say the word and we'll pull you out, Mr. Rider. You don't have to fight this fight._ He'd looked straight into her eyes and nodded, concealing his rage with long honed practice.

She'd said those words before, when Alex was just a fourteen year old boy with no idea what he was getting into. He'd believed her then, only to be paid in pain and betrayal. He was older now, more jaded, more understanding of her and her motives, less rigid in his morals. He'd made the mistake of believing her then, and the one rule he stuck by no matter what was, _Never make the same mistake twice._


End file.
